


Until morning

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Hand Jobs, Insomnia, Pining, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-29 16:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10858197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: Sleeping alone is nothing new, but her bed is so empty without her.Beta'd by the wonderfulecouterbien.





	Until morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fadagaski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/gifts).



Max can’t sleep.

This time, he came back to the Citadel to find Furiosa gone. It’s fine, she’s fine, she’s leading a trade run to Gastown, expected back tomorrow. Everyone assumes he’ll spend the night in her room, so he does. Except he can’t sleep.

Sleeping alone is nothing new. He’s done this for years, just him and his car and the desert, but her bed is so empty without her.

It’s not that it’s particularly big. There’s room enough for both of them, when he’s here. Her absence seems to take up more space than she does, leaving him marooned in a cold expanse of mattress.

It’s been strange, being at the Citadel without her. He finds his memories press closer. He’s more likely to startle, to flinch from things that remind him of the first time he came here. In calmer moments, he’s aware of rhythms that he isn’t part of. The sisters and the Vuvalini were glad to see him: he’s touched and a little embarrassed by their kindness. A shared past makes it easier to relax around them, but he’s aware how much Furiosa acts as a bridge between him and the rooted Citadel. She gives him a clearer place in the web of relationships, even if he can’t always stay to fill it.

Going to her bed had been easy enough. He’d drifted off at the start of the night, then woken himself by shifting in his sleep, as if trying to find her. Now even dozing seems to be beyond him.

In the desert, being a light but easy sleeper is a survival skill. Max wakes on a hair trigger, from real and imagined noise, genuine threats and those conjured by his brain. In bad times, panic drives him to the point of collapse. When he’s healthier, he’s able to slide back into sleep, his body snatching rest and moving on. He can go for days on just short naps, but it will catch up with him. Without longer, heavier sleep he’ll get clumsy, his senses slower and his judgement woolly. When he does find a safe enough shelter, deeper sleep brings its own risks. That’s when he has his worst nightmares, the kind he doesn’t quickly wake from.

Max and Furiosa both like the idea that they sleep better together, find comfort in believing it. It’s not entirely true. Sharing her bed means sharing bad dreams and bruises. There’s the instinctive panic that wakes him up swinging, the more considered panic when he realises how deep he’s in, the emotional risks they’re taking together. He’ll be jolted awake by her thrashing body, fighting its way out of the past, by the way she sometimes freezes into stillness beside him.

But their better sleep is so much better. On a good night – there have been more and more good nights – her breath and her heartbeat ground him. Someone has his back. When he lets himself accept that, it brings him a trembling happiness of a kind he hasn’t had in years. There’s the tenderness of having her there when he wakes up, of seeing how she looks in sleep, her face relaxed and her body gentle.

He tries not to fret over how things are going in Gastown. They don’t expect trouble on this particular run, though it’s more than a routine trip. They’re staying overnight because Citadel engineers are consulting with Gastown over drilling equipment, but he understands there’s been more of that lately; it’s not the first time. The convoy will be larger, with more crew as well as the engineers. Toast is heading the pursuit team. She’s grown into an experienced, sharp-eyed crew leader. He shouldn’t be worrying. There is no need to worry.

There are still so many ways it could go wrong. The more he tries not to think of them, the more they come crowding into his brain. He rolls over, tries lying on his side. If she were here, this would be spooning. He wonders if this is how it is for her, when he leaves. If she’s lonely, if she worries. He thinks she understands that he would stay, if he could, that he does stay as long as he can. He remembers the way she looks him over for injuries, when he comes back.

Perhaps he should just give up, move back into the interceptor, parked downstairs in the garage. If he does, he’ll spend the night watching the road, looking out for the return of the convoy, however much he pretends that’s not what he’s doing. He wishes he could stop thinking, just switch off and let go.

He considers stroking himself off, since orgasm tends to make him sleepy. His cock is slow to respond, as grumpy as he is; alone with his hand in her bed is just too depressing. It’s not like being on the road, where it’s simple, a practical way to deal with his body’s requirements. So he lies awake, weary and annoyed with himself, his mind buzzing. When he got into bed, he’d thought he could smell her on the pillow, on the bedclothes, a lingering sense of her. He’s lost it now, or covered it with his own scent. She’s not here.

Max rolls over again, kicking about. He knows he’s being ridiculous. He tries to make himself lie still, to choose a calmer position. Lying on his back, stretched out, accepting the luxury of space. His feet are getting cold.

What if he had got here earlier, in time to join the Gastown run? Would she be any safer, if he’d been here, if he’d gone with her? Maybe, but he can’t keep her safe; he can’t even promise to be here. He’s only too aware of how unreliable he is. At this time of night, in the darkness of early morning, the wasteland feels bleaker than usual, his own attempts to hold it back more helpless.

He misses her so much it’s like a choking ache in his throat. It’s a reaction to tiredness, he knows that, as much exhaustion as real feeling. Telling himself so does nothing to ease the loneliness.

He lies awake until dawn. When the sky is starting to turn grey, when he has to admit he has wasted the whole night, he manages to doze off.

His eyes open to daylight, bright midmorning sun. He must have slept heavily after all; he feels groggy with it, his eyelids sticky. He looks muzzily around the room, and there she is.

Furiosa is at the washstand, rinsing her cropped hair. He’s surprised she didn’t wake him when she came in. She’s been here long enough to strip to her underwear, cloth binding around her breasts and a pair of faded knickers, an unlikely floral pattern bleached out by wear and washing. The softened fabric hangs loose over the rounded muscle of her bum. Her bare skin has no new scars that he can see, no fresh bruises: she is whole and safe. The drops of water in her hair catch the light. He must have made a sound, because she looks at him and smiles.

Max surges out of bed and stumbles towards her, wraps himself around her. He’s clingy and needy, pressing his face against the wet skin of her neck.

“Hello, sleepy.” She runs a damp hand through his hair. Max burrows closer.

She feels cool and taut, her body alert against his own heavy, frowsty warmth. He can’t smell any of Gastown’s tainted air on her: she’s washed her hair and dumped her outer clothes. Caught halfway through bathing, she smells of dust and sweat, of the desert, of herself.

He tries to clean up before he comes back to the Citadel, but he’s noticed she doesn’t seem to mind if he’s a little grubby, at least for the first day. Now he sees why. Her scent has an animal quality that speaks directly to his own body: partly sexual, but also the promise of contact, of closeness and comfort. He’s still feeling washed out, cloudy with tiredness, but he just wants to curl himself around her.

When he does, she laughs, her half arm sliding round his waist. He recognises the energy, the unspooling tension of a successful run. He’ll ask about Gastown later, but he already knows it’s gone well: he can see that, can touch it. His neck and shoulders tingle at the way she’s combing through his hair, his own hands stroking her bare back. He knows she’s wired, feels himself responding.

His face still in her shoulder, he tugs at her, backing towards the bed. She comes easily, lets him draw her down beside him.

“You up for this? You look tired.” She ruffles his hair again, kisses him when he nods. Max is suddenly aware that his mouth is gummy, the dull weight of bad sleep sitting in his body.

“Wait.” He gets a cup of water, gulps it down and refills it, handing it over. She drinks half, gives him the rest. Then she kisses him again.

She’s blazingly bright this morning, still buzzing from the run, but she’s going lightly, so much power held in gentleness. His knees might buckle at it, at how overwhelming she is. He wants to hold her close, wants to bury himself in her.

Getting back into bed, he climbs straight between her legs, kissing her hip and belly as he works her knickers down. He hums approval as she kicks them off, pressing his face against her. The skin of her inner thigh is so soft, smooth and damp over strong muscle. He’s greedy and slow, lapping and sucking and breathing her in. After last night’s wandering thoughts, it’s a relief to pour himself into this, just this. His fog of weariness fades. The world narrows, lets him concentrate, feeling her shiver and grow slippery, hearing her moan.

Once she’s finished, she wriggles down to kiss him, his mouth and his wet chin. She’s more relaxed now, her edges softening. When she reaches into his sleep trousers, getting his cock out, he’s already hard under her hand.

“Like this?” Her voice is low and silky, her fingers curling. Max nods and sighs.

He mumbles in protest when she pulls away, jumping up from the bed.

“Just getting this.” On her desk, there’s a new pot of Gastown jelly, something she must have traded for on the run: it wasn’t there last night. She holds it steady with her nub, deftly popping the lid off to dig out some of the lubricant. Her feet skitter on the stone floor as she hurries back to bed.

“Help me warm it?” She’s holding a hard lump of the jelly, set firm in the cool of the morning. Heat and touch will soften it into liquid: of course she could do it one-handed, but this is so much sweeter. Max puts his hand in hers, palm to palm, the jelly pressed between them. As she gets into bed and settles against him, he laces their fingers, the heel of his hand against the hollow of hers. His head is on her shoulder, his other arm around her. As their hands rock and squeeze, he can feel the jelly starting to melt, dripping warm and slick between their fingers.

“You first,” she tells him, pulling her hand away. He strokes himself once, slicking his cock. She’s in a hurry to follow, their hands tangling for a moment before she starts to stroke him.

He’s still sleepy, his body responding to her but also to the relaxed pleasure of being with her, of having her here. Her hand moves in wet, steady strokes, going slow. She kisses him, soft and lazy, her lips brushing whatever’s nearest: the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows, the scars and frown lines of his forehead.

“Liked finding you in my bed.” Her voice is a murmur, fond and teasing. She knows he enjoys it when she talks to him. “Got back and there you were.” It feels like a wet dream that he happens to be awake for, Furiosa curled around him, stroking him. He’s floating. She kisses his nose again, lets her hand speed up, adding a turn of her wrist on each word. “Soft – and sleepy – and safe –”

He feels that now, but he hadn’t last night. He turns his face against her shoulder, hoping that will make speaking easier.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Her hand is still working, slick and wet and irresistible. “You weren’t here – I – and I know – I go –”

“Max – ” Her half arm is tighter around him, her voice gone rough. He feels her kissing the top of his head, murmuring. He comes with his face in her neck and her voice in his ear, his words only half said, almost dizzy with the way his tension drops away from him. She holds him until he’s together enough to lift his head. She’s feeling shy, too: he knows by the fierce way she kisses him. He rests his head on her shoulder again, a moment of quiet before they get up to wash.

When they’re clean, he doesn’t want to get dressed, his arms back around her.

“Five more minutes,” he suggests. She laughs, but lets him pull her back to bed, snuggling against him and tugging the covers up. They’re pressed so close that he can feel her heartbeat. Before the five minutes are up, he’s asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
